


Black Widow: Red

by bonniepatsy



Category: Black Widow - Fandom, Captain America, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers
Genre: Back Stories Galore, Clintasha BrOTP, Father Figure Fury, Infinity Gems, Multi, Red Room, Some Wanda/Vision, general badassery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonniepatsy/pseuds/bonniepatsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha Romanoff has a thousand secrets, a hundred dead aliases, and only two ghosts.</p><p> </p><p>(I got tired of waiting for a Black Widow movie, so I'm writing my own.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Widow: Red

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking some creative liberties with the Marvel Comic Universe, but everything in the Marvel Cinematic Universe so far is canon in this story. This story picks up at the end of Civil War, roughly three months later. The first chapter is mostly Wakandan politics because of the plot I've developed, but I promise it will soon be all black widow goodness. Please leave comments and feedback, not only do I thrive on feedback but it also helps me tailor my story, suggestions are welcome!

Russia, 1999

  
    Two men walk down a long corridor in uniform. They don't speak, or acknowledge the presence of one another. The one to the left is tall and thin, he walks with the confidence and age that comes from war. The one on the right walks with confidence as well, but his comes with knowledge. They reach the end of the corridor and the one on the right swipes a card across an identification pad, which beeps and signals the clean steel doors before them to open.  
    They walk along a hallway lined with rooms and one way walls, cells. Each room is a bastardization of a single dormitory, white interior, a bookshelf, a bedside table, a small dresser and one narrow metal twin bed. In each room is a girl, ranging from 10 to 25, handcuffed to the bed, asleep. Blondes on the left, brunettes on the right. They walk all the way to the end, each of the girls eyes open as they pass, sensing their footsteps on the other side of their door. Who knows what they want. Will they themselves be next.  
    They get to the last door on the left. BELOVA, reads the name tag on the door. She knows they're there for her. She is already awake, her eyes dull and expectant. The circles beneath them could be mistaken for bruises. Her honey hair limp and stringy against her stained pillow. Well worn scars, old and new, circle her wrists and ankles from years of restraints. She sings a lullaby to herself in Russian:

 _Tili tili bom_  
_Close your eyes now_  
_Someone's walking outside the house_  
_And knocks on the door_  
_Tili tili bom_  
_The nightbirds are chirping_  
_He is inside the house_  
_To visit those who can't sleep_  
_He walks_  
_He is coming_  
_Closer_

    They wait outside her door while she sings. Suddenly at the far end of the hall the doors swing open. A severe looking woman walks down the hall dressed in black, her salt and pepper hair is pulled into a bun, her face is full of wrinkles, but she walks with strength and agility unsettling for her age. Her heels click along the tile purposefully, followed by a much softer stead. A gentleman, dressed in gray follows close behind her, he's approaching middle aged and wears his ashy blond hair military style. The woman, takes an assortment of keys from her pocket and unlocks Belova's door. She doesn't look at them, but giggles. The two uniformed men unlock her handcuffs and she gets off the bed calmly and gracefully. No one mentions her bleeding wrists as they walk back with the uniforms behind her and the instructors in front.

  
    They fight in a ballet room full of mirrors, the blond man and Belova. Neither of them make a noise as they are watched by twelve men and woman at a long table on the far end. Some make notes, others look on with a blank boredom. The severe woman stands in the corner next to a form thats hunched over. It's a woman in a simple frock-like dress stained with her own filth and bile. She has a bag over her head and she cries softly and pathetically.  
    Hours have passed. Dawn creeps in through the windows. One by one they other girls join the audience, sitting poised and polite. Belova and the man continue to fight until Belova lets out a fierce cry and roundhouse kicks the man off his feet and into the mirror, shattering it. With out skipping a beat, Belova walks towards him emotionlessly, ready to finish what she started, but the severe woman raises her hand. Belova stops and stands in relaxed attention, awaiting more orders.  
The severe woman walks over to her and cups her face lovingly.  
     “My girl. My precious child.” she says softly, brushing Belova's hair out of her face. Belova bows her head, like a dog to a master.  
     “Too long have you been with us.” she continues, lifting Belova's chin with her finger tips, bringing Belova's forehead to her lips. “Loyalty. That's what it comes down to.” She addresses the rest of the room. “Loyalty. And our dear Yelena has proven her loyalty time and time again.” She stands beside Yelena Belova in an act of solidarity. “She is an example. A leader. The best we have in espionage, armed and unarmed combat, martial arts, military arts, intelligence operations, and on a personal note, a protege.” Belova reacted subtly to that, as if somewhere deep inside, she was touched. The blond man had gotten gingerly to his feet and stood on the other side of her. He traced his finger along her thumb briefly, intimately, supportively.  
     “Today is about Yelena!” the woman placed both her hands on Belova's shoulders. “Today, she inherits her rightful title: Black Widow.” This caused a tenseness in the crowd. A few people whispered. The severe woman walked to the corner and hauled the weeping woman from her resting spot and into the center of the room at Belova's feet. The weeping woman let out panicked hysterical gasps and sobs, trying to free herself from the restraints. The severe woman handed Belova a small gun, which she armed immediately and without question. The whispers grew louder, some of the girls shifted in their seats.  
    The severe woman lifted the bag off the weeping woman's head. Time slowed, if there was a flicker of surprise on Belova's face, in went unnoticed. She stared down her arm, down the barrel, right into this woman's eyes. She had Belova's face. She had her physique. Even under intense scrutiny she could be Yelena Belova. But she wasn't.  
     The woman wept openly, and glanced to her left. In her peripherals, Belova noticed a tiny bob in her sparing partner's adams apple. In the blink of an eye, it all fell into place.  
    Bang.  
    The woman fell in a crumpled heap at Belova's feet. And Belova turned to the man beside her.  
     “Yelena...” he said, pleadingly.  
     “Pyotr.” she replied.  
    Bang. She gazed through the hole in his head, remorselessly. He stood there for a second, eyes wide and lifeless, and then crumpled beside his cold lover. There was complete silence in the room. A woman, as old as the one beside Belova, stood up at the council table.  
     “This girl is not fit to be the Black Widow!” she said sternly, outraged “She will never be Natalia Romanov-!”  
    Bang. She cut off suddenly. How could she speak with a hole in her throat? She settled back into her chair holding her neck, gasping, blood spurting. No one paid her any mind.  
     “I would be honored.” Belova said.

 

Wakanda, Present Day

     “We stand in solidarity, in mourning, for the loss of our beloved King.” Hunter sighed shakily, looking down at his note cards. “He was a man of profound strength. And Courage. Passion. Integrity. Patience. He was a hero, not only to my brothers, sister and I, but to the nation.”  
    On the edge of a beautiful Wakandan village is a small humble church packed over capacity of citizens, family, fiends and press. They spill out into the streets, solemn, and quiet. A few people cry soundlessly, others seem to be in shock, the rest are listening respectfully. Hunter, the eldest son, adopted by T'Chaka, looks nervous and morose as he shuffles his notes.  
     “It's always a shock, when someone so tough and brave is taken away so quickly. It would be easy to be upset and angry, but we must not let our pain rule us. We must remember that this was not an act of terrorism, but the act of a man, just one man, who allowed his pain to consume him and dictate his actions.”  
    T'Challa sat with his sister Shuri, and his brother Jakarra on decorated chairs beside Hunter at the podium. Shuri lets a single tear fall down her face, Jakarra's eyes are red, T'Challa is composed but weighted with despair. The entire room has similar postures. To his left, standing against the wall is a camera crew, The reporter is a pretty woman in her early 30s with recently dyed brunette hair and a modest black shirt suit, the camera man is a tall guy, also in his early 30s with a beard, a large nose and startling blue eyes, the sound guy has dark skin, a gap in his front teeth, wears thick glasses and carries the air of military about him. They each have their heads bowed not even bothering to film.  
     “I remember my father's turmoil in signing the Sokovia Accords, which I think is what many people who signed the accords felt. Of course some did it for their own reasons, power, control et cetera – but real leaders had to question the realism that comes with heroism. Of course heroes show us the way and remind us the good that people are capable of. Heroes are people who do what must be done regardless of personal strife. And to believe in the heroic makes heroes. When I asked him, why, why are you signing the Accords, isn't the pursuit of freedom and justice more important than anything? And he said to me, Hunter, sometimes restraint requires more effort and sacrifice than war in the pursuit of peace. A show of power is not necessarily a show of strength, and a demonstration of intelligence is not the same as a demonstration of wisdom.”  
     “I offer these words in hope that they will assist in healing the wounds left by the sudden death of someone so important to us.” Hunter straitened up and cleared in throat, unsure of how to continue. “It's a shame that such sad events surround what would otherwise be a happy occasion. A joyous one. Today, we honor the enthronement of King T'Challa.”  
   The area burst with applause, and T'Challa bowed his head, regally. “Now I know that I may be the black sheep of the family-” There were scattered laughs from the audience. “but I grew up with leaders. Monarchs, dictators, elected officials, presidents, ministers, councils, chiefs, and cabinets. I've seen the rise and fall of dozens of the good, the bad and the ugly. I don't pretend to know a lot, but I do know what makes a good leader. And I can't tell you how humbled, and awestruck I am when I tell you that my brother is not only an... exceptional human being, but will be an extraordinary leader -” the applause started to grow and Hunter had to speak over them, “of the Kingdom of Wakanda, rivaling the heart of even my father, yes! King T'Challa, the Dauntless! The Man Without Fear!” People started to stand, applauding with fervor, Hunter backed away from the stand applauding with them, his siblings joining in. When it died down, Hunter cleared his throat again, his brows furrowed.  
     “As many of you know, it is Wakandan tradition that the old King should welcome in the new King. As King T'Chaka can only be with us in spirit as well as Queen N'Yami, T'Challa has asked me... given me the privilege to host his Coronation.” In the audience, there were a few uncomfortable whispers and shifting in the seats, but in regard it was kept to a minimum. Hunter's ears turned red. “I understand that this is rather unorthodox, after all I have no right to the crown myself, however I hope that the court and church will allow me this small endeavor given the circumstances.” The media went into a contained frenzy, trying to capture this moment as subtlety as possible. Above on a second story cut out were seven officials, each dressed simply and elegantly, on the left three women, the right three men, and in the center, an immense ancient Head Priest. Up on the bannister, the six on the sidelines whispered feverishly to each other, while the middle man surveyed the events taking place with stoney silence. T'Challa waited, holding his ground, gazing up at their congregation. Jakarra waited in anticipation, his entire body cool and itching for a fight. The moment stretched on. One of the women whispered something in the head priest's ear but he waved her away. Quite suddenly, Shuri was on her feet, her back pin straight and looking hard at her peers and the congregation. Power and grace rolled off her in waves.  
     “It is surely a sad day, ladies and gentlemen, when we believe that family ends in blood.” She stood next to Hunter on the podium. “This is an antiquated discussion. Hunter is, and has always been apart of the royal family. A model citizen of Wakanda. He is more than qualified.”  
     “Princess Shuri. It is not that simple.” the Head Priest spoke. “Family. Wakandans. These things do not end in blood. The royal family does.”  
     “T'Chaka didn't think so.” Jakarra said quietly, as if he couldn't help himself. The head priest leaned back into his chair, thinking.  
     “This matter should be discussed in private,” he said finally. He rose and addressed the room at large. “The ceremony shall be postponed two hours. Please, head into the ball room for light refreshments and pleasant conversation until this matter is resolved.”  
     “Ruh-roh.” said the brunette reporter to the bearded cameraman. The audience shuffled slowly out the entryway, conversing in excited hushed tones. T'Challa, who had not moved the entire time, caught the eyes of the cameraman, widened them meaningfully and looked over at the greenroom, for brides and private parties. The cameraman nodded subtly and tapped the sound guy and the reporter on the back of the hand. They melted at the last second into the greenroom.  
     “What?” Sam asked, taking off his glasses. Natasha shushed him, pointing up. The church was so old that it barely had any insulation, and they could hear everything that went on. Some dust trickled down from the ceiling boards. The Head Priest had gotten to his feet.  
     “This is most irregular.” he said, evenly.  
     “I agree.” Shuri said, “However, you seem to be mistaking it for wrong.”  
     “We cannot have our previous King killed on foreign soil, and our new King crowned by a foreigner!” one of the men said heatedly.  
     “Again, I agree.” Shuri continued. “However, my brother was raised on Wakandan soil. He is a Wakandan. He is a Prince.”  
     “Please, Shuri.” Hunter said, “I do not want to create an international incident over this.”  
     “Yes, well you have already done that.” Jakarra said, haughtily. “It is not like these fine religious leaders can openly say that they are xenophobic racists."  
     “Jakarra.” T'Challa said, warningly.  
     “We all know, T'Challa.” Jakarra went on, “We all know Hunter can not be the King even if he is the first born. No one says why, but we know. Now he can not even host your coronation. Well done, T'Challa,” he added with a cruel tone. “he has to host it now, as if tensions weren't high enough. Announce it to a room of reporters and then it has to happen as opposed to behind closed doors where our brother would be swept under the rug, again.”  
     “You sound like you want that!” Shuri said, venomously  
     “I do not WANT anything,” Jakarra spat. “You all are so dramatic. Do you know how hard I worked to extinguish the fire you started” he said, rounding on T'Challa “when you went out parading as the Black Panther? How I had to spin every tale labeling father a hypocrite for signing the Sokovia Accords. How you and a troop of renegades raised havoc in search of father's killer, how you yourself were a turncoat to our father's last wish! Days without sleep I worked to preserve our reputation! You were arrested by the ENTIRE free world! Have you forgotten? I – we – Shuri and I had no time to grieve. Now you want to drag Hunter through the soot of the fire I just put out! What a fine way to start your rein as King.”  
Steve bowed his head, sitting on the arm of a faded couch. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Sam sat opposite of him in a frilly armchair. Natasha leaned against the wall, trying to hear better.  
     “I knew what this would do, Jakarra.” Hunter said, evenly. “I did not walk blindly into the crosshairs as you seem to think. I'm well aware of the situation.”  
     “How could you refuse, though?” Jakarra sneered. “T'Challa put you in an impossible situation, _again_. The least he owes you is an apology.”  
     “With respect, your Highnesses,” the Head Priest interjected. “the matter at hand still needs to be solved.”  
     “This is non-negotiable,” T'Challa said firmly, “I will be rechristened by my family. Not a nobleman, not a war hero, and not as a publicity stunt.” They all waited in silence. The seven started speaking to each other quietly.  
     'What are they saying?' Sam mouthed. Natasha shook her head, straining.

  
     “I will allow it, on two conditions,” the Head Priest said finally.  
     “What?” Hunter asked quickly.  
     “One, the secret police, known as Hatut Zeraze, is to be scrapped and rebuilt-”  
     Jakarra laughed derisively, “Oh come on.”  
     “Their violence is under great scrutiny -” said one of the men.  
     “Oh I'm sure it is. Remind me, who is leader of the Hatut?”  
     “Secondly!”  
     “Prince Hunter. Prince Hunter, the White Wolf of Wakanda. You just do not want him around do you? Why don't you just have him exiled for existin-!?”  
     “Prince Jakarra!” the Head Priest's voice boomed over them like thunder, more dust fell from the ceiling. “If you can not hold a civilized conversation, you will be escorted our of this house of worship. Do I make myself clear?” Jakarra took in a breath as if to speak.  
     “Jakarra,” T'Challa hushed,” It is better to be included than excluded in these matters.” There was a tense moment. Soon, more dust floated down as if the seven had relaxed a bit in their seats.  
     “Secondly, all three of you shall perform the coronation.” the High Priest said.  
    More dust, as if a few of them had jumped. Hunter let out a relieved, disbelieving laugh. Someone clapped some else on the back. Sam brushed debris out of his hair.  
     “Damn, man. Doesn't anybody clean around here?” he muttered. Natasha waved her finger in front of her lips, shooting him a death glare.  
     “Sir, do you think that's wise?” said a woman.

     "I suppose so," said another with a sneer, "two half-siblings and an adopted boy, almost make one whole Royal."  
     “I knew T'Chaka for many years.” the High Priest said, speaking over the petty banter. “We did not always see eye to eye. He always wanted to do what was right, because he saw the world as right and wrong, but I always had to pull him back. 'There is a cliff where the white land and black ocean meet,' I'd say to him, 'if you do not have areas of gray you will fall in!'” he laughed, “You are very much like your father T'Challa.” he said warmly. “I look forward to serving under you. This may not be the black and white solution. However, I can safely say this is what he would have wanted. If we were not under such dire circumstances I would have allowed it. But we are. So we must compromise.” He made his way down the old wooden stairs. “I am sorry you are always under such scrutiny, Prince Hunter. I hope that one day... one day it is not so.  
     “Now, Your Highness, honored guests! Might I suggest that we retire with our remaining time for a light brunch with the others, I'm sure several reporters may have suffered aneurisms from the anticipation by now.” There was movement upstairs, some hurried, some shuffling, some even angry, and one by one they descended down the stairs. The High Priest lead them out past the greenroom door and into the brilliant sunshine.  
     “Woah.” Sam said.  
     “Yeah.” Steve said.  
     “Why do we always make friends with drama queens?” Natasha smirked.  
     “Please, like the two of you aren't drama queens.” Sam said, dusting off the front of his jacket.  
     “What?” Steve said incredulously, “you're the most dramatic out of any of us.”  
     “Need I remind you how I got mixed up in all this?” Sam talked over him, holding up a finger, pointing to each of them in turn “Who showed up at whose door at the ass crack of dawn and said - and I quote: 'We have nowhere else to go.' 'Everyone we know is trying to kill us.'” Steve chuckled softly.  
     “We weren't being drama queens,” Natasha said, jokingly, “it was a very accurate statement.”  
     “Yeah well, you're accurate statement was dramatic royalty, let me tell you.” Sam raised his brows, picking off the last bit of fluff from his suit. “So what now?”  
     “Well we probably shouldn't go to the lunch, that many camera's someone could ID us.” Natasha said.  
     “Why don't we go for a walk?” Steve said, happily.  
     “A walk?” Sam clarified.  
     “Yeah,” Steve said, taking in a deep breath, “it's a beautiful day. When was the last time we just enjoyed the scenery?” He shouldered the camera and made for the door.  
     “Y'all are just determined I ruin this suit.” Sam muttered under his breath. Natasha hung back, touching her earpiece.     “We're walking the perimeter if either of you want to stretch your legs.”  
     “What did she say?” Clint asked just as Scott said “Yes, oh I am so OUTTA here. Next time we do this, I do NOT call the van, I hate the van, I will no longer be on van duty.”  
    Natasha smiled to herself and went to follow the boys out of the church but paused. Looking out the window she watched as Jakarra approached the High Priest and shook his hand, all smiles. Natasha peered at them, suspiciously. He leaned in and said something. She couldn't read his lips at this distance. They pulled away suddenly, nodding curtly, and walking away from each other. She tucked it away for future reference.

***

     “I can't get over this sandwich, man.” Clint said.  
     “And what is this called again?” Steve asked, raising his eyebrows amusedly.  
     “Fluffernutter.” Sam said, unwrapping another. “Marshmallow fluff and peanut butter. Together. You don't even need to eat it, your mouth is already thanking me.”  
     “I haven't had these in forever.” Scott says hungrily, freeing another from cellophane. “I used to make these for my daughter all the time.” He digs in the cooler for a juicebox.  
    Natasha eats quietly, looking at her boys and smiling. They found a little clearing not too far off. It overlooked the Panther Technology's Institute, an enormous, sleek white building in the otherwise thick jungle. Just visible on the other side was the impressive panther sculpture, leaping out of the fog.  
     “What is it with this guy and cats.” Sam said, almost to himself.  
     “Aw Tweedy, did you taught you taw a puddy tat?” Clint laughed at his own joke, Scott joined.  
     “I'm serious man, this place is creepy,” Sam said, slurping down the last of his juice, “this entire town has a thing about cats. Like, you and me got our bird thing, these two got their bug thing and this guy has his... star spangled thing but thats just us, this whole town... there are cats everywhere.”  
     “Before the invasion of Christianity, the primary deity of Wakanda was Bast, a Panther Goddess.” Steve said. “T'Challa told me. Vibranium, from what they can gather, was actually a meteorite, and the raw material is a powerful mutagen. When it hit, several Wakandans were painfully mutated into what was perceived as demons and started attacking everyone. Bashenga, T'Challa's ancestor was the ruler of Wakanda and a talented healer. He discovered that near the crash were these heart-shaped herbs that he'd never seen before. He assumed they were mutated from the Vibranium, and made a sort of oral-vaccine from it, and not unlike the super solider serum that made me like this, it gave him elevated physical attributes.”  
     “So Great-Great Grandaddy smoked some something and presto became Captain Wakanda?” Sam nodded, “Did this guy also have a thing for cats?”  
     “He became the first Black Panther in honor of Bast, and protected the Wakandans from the 'demons' and put the Vibranium under protection from outsiders. The Panther is a symbol for protection, home, ancestors, almost everything.” Steve shrugged.  
     “Cats eyes glow in the dark. It's not right, man.” Sam shook his head.  
     “I can't eat around this nose.” Steve complained.  
     “Quit your whining, most people don't have a perfect face.” Natasha teased.

     "You should keep your brown hair though, it looks good." Sam, gave her thumbs up.

     "Thanks, you look pretty good with glasses, actually it's actually pretty close to my natural color." Natasha smiled

     "You're not a natural red head?" Steve asked, mystified, choking a bit on his fluffernutter.  
     “Is that... Vision?” Clint said, squinting. Everyone froze looking towards where Clint was looking. In the distance, a tiny speck drifted towards the balcony of the Panther Technology's Institute.  
     “We'll take your word for it, Hawkeye.” Scott said slowly packing up as though sudden movements would alert Vision to their presence. “Which one is Vision again? He's not the green one, right? He's the red one.”  
     “I'm going to go check on Wanda.” Clint said.  
     “Okay, yeah the red one.”  
     “You guys go to the Coronation.”  
     “Be careful.” Natasha said.  
     “Oh, I'm just going to watch. I probably won't get to do anything.” Clint shrugged, “Last time she made it pretty clear that she won't do anything she doesn't want to.”

 

***

 

    The Coronation passed in a blur. All three of T'Challa's siblings presented him an item, Hunter presented a crown, Jakarra, a white and silver scepter, and Shuri, an embellished panther skull of vibranim. T'Challa repeated his vows and suddenly he was King. The renegade avengers politely clapped, distracted by their own thoughts.  
    They went to the after party, in the mash and expanse of bodies, no one would recognize them. They went up to T'Challa and bowed to him, copying everyone else. T'Challa nodded to them with a warm smile but didn't linger so as not to trigger any suspicion. They picked at their food, each waiting for anything from Clint.  
     “Hey guys,” Clint's voice finally came over the earpiece. “head on over to Tower 2.0. Got some good news, and bad news. But mostly good news so don't freak out.”  
    They looked at each other and slowly made their way to the exit.

 

***

 

     “I come here as a friend, and as a messenger for Mr. Stark.” Vision said, his hands slightly raised. “He does not know your location.”  
     “I gave him a phone” Steve said just as Natasha said “How do you know our location?”  
    They all stood in the common area, a subtle stand off with Wanda, and Vision on one side, Steve, Natasha, Scott and Sam on the other and Clint hovering in the middle.  
     “You are famous super powered outlaws recently befriended by a wealthy royal physicist from a rural kingdom known for Vibranium. It wasn't that hard.” Vision said calmly. Natasha shot Steve a he's-got-a-point look.  
     “What's your message.” Steve asked, crossing his arms.  
     “Mr. Stark believes he has a way to unhinge the Winter Soldier from Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.” Vision said simply. The statement hung in the air for a moment.  
     “Sure he does.” Sam said, matching Steve's stance.  
     “It's true,” Wanda urged, “I think it might work.” She interlaced her fingers with his. Vision looked pleasantly surprised, squeezed, but dropped her hand and held both of his behind his back.  
     “It was originally an experiment to free Dr. Banner from his alter-ego Hulk, however gamma radiation is an infinitely complex science that is mostly mystery, and in his particular case, the process could have the reverse effect and make the Hulk, … permanent.”  
     “No.” Steve said firmly. “I won't risk the Winter Soldier becoming permanent.”  
     “You misunderstand.” Vision inclined his head politely, “That is an extremely low percentage out come. Dr. Banner's condition is fueled by an inner source. He is consistently in the gray area of his burden. As he so put it, - he is always angry. He is always 51 percent one side, and 49 percent the other. Mr. Barnes on the other hand is fueled by an outside source, he does not become his alter-ego unless acted upon. He is a victim of brainwashing and conditioning – it takes an outside source to, for lack of a better word, activate or deactivate him.”  
    Steve didn't say anything, his jaw muscled flexing involuntarily as he mulled through his thoughts. Natasha watched him.  
     “What did Stark have in mind?” Natasha asked.  
     “Loki's scepter is what gave my brother and I our powers.” Wanda said, “But we were not the only ones, there were others. There was a girl who could see the future, a child who could insert himself in others memories, a boy who could remember what others forgot.”  
     “Before Ultron attacked JARVIS, Dr. Banner and Mr. Stark noted that the scepter, or the stone,” he tapped his forehead, “was very much like a brain, a cosmos of neurons. Thor believes that it is one of the Infinity Gems.”  
     “The Infinity Gems?” Scott asked happily, he crossed the space between them to closer inspect Vision's forehead, “That's an Infinity Gem??” he breathed, brimming with excitement.  
     “Erm, it would appear so.” Vision said, leaning acutely away.  
     “Ah, sorry bro,” Scott said, respecting Vision's personal space, “I'm just, wow, that is...” he looked around at his peers who didn't seem to share his enthusiasm. He pointed and mouthed 'It's an Infinity Gem... whaaa?'  
     “Do you know which one you are?” Scott asked his hands on his hips, inspecting from a respectful distance. “The Reality Stone? The Red one? Sorry, is that racist? That felt racist.”  
     “The red one was discovered by Thor's, well, Dr. Jane Foster. No, it is believed that I have the Mind Stone.”  
     “So, what does that mean?” Natasha urged, a little harsher than intended.  
     “It means, that in theory, Wanda can hack my brain, or the stone, and use it to get into and compartmentalize the Winter Soldier.”  
     “Un-hypnotize him,” Wanda clarified, “nullify his trigger words.”  
     “What about the rest of him?” Steve asked.  
     “It's would be wrong of us to erase what he's done.” Vision said, sternly making it clear it was not up for debate. “Nor do I believe Mr. Barnes would want us to. We would simply be giving his mind it's own power.”  
     “In theory.” Clint interjected.  
     “Yes, in theory.” Vision amended, “Should this experiment fail, Mr. Barnes would remain as he is. Yet, should it succeed, Mr. Barnes would get his free will back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments and feedback, not only do I thrive on feedback but it also helps me tailor my story, suggestions are welcome! THANK YOU FOR READING!!
> 
> *here is the lullaby Yelena sings : https://youtu.be/BDMmj5WgB8c


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